


Free Bird (Scandal Westeros - Episode Five)

by SkinnyBlackGirl



Series: Scandal: Westeros [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Scandal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Incest, Modern Westeros, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Phone Sex, Politics, Rare Pairings, Recreational Drug Use, Scandal-Westeros, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27229933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkinnyBlackGirl/pseuds/SkinnyBlackGirl
Summary: Another day, another scandal brewing in Westeros. This time, it's Sansa Stark, host of Westeros's #1 morning talk show and darling of the King's Landing social scene who hires fixer Sarella Sand to help end her tumultuous marriage to Joffrey Baratheon, son of the former Prime Minister, Robert Baratheon.The only problem: Sarella can't tell Robb or Jon Snow about the plan to extract Sansa from the penthouse where Joffrey holds her captive. And she needs additional help for the mission. Enter: Daemon Sand, Oberyn's second-in-command with whom Sarella has a complicated history, and Brienne Tarth, who Sarella must persuade to re-join the Sphinx Consultants team.Will the team be able to outwit the ruthless, cunning Lannisters? Can Robb and Jon forgive Sarella for hiding Sansa's case? What secrets and schemes lie ahead? Find out...T/W: this story contains domestic violence and abuse.
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Joffrey Baratheon/Sansa Stark, Roslin Frey/Robb Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Sarella Sand/Daemon Sand, Sarella Sand/Robb Stark
Series: Scandal: Westeros [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1623448
Comments: 23
Kudos: 41





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, there! If you're a first-time reader, I highly suggest reading the previous Scandal-Westeros stories before starting this one.

Breathing in the salty breeze off the Blackwater, Sansa Stark stands on the balcony of her two-million-dollar penthouse. The evening skyline, with its gravity-defying skyscrapers and flirtatious winking lights, mocks her. 

_Good Queen Sansa, behold your kingdom._

She used to be an Arbor Gold drinker, but she’s taken to gin and tonic lately. Another sip of the bitter cocktail and she recalls falling in love with King’s Landing on a Spring Break trip in middle school. Winterfell was a beautiful estate by any standard, but the lumberyards and wood-and-leather pubs of the North couldn’t compete with the upscale boutiques and black marble-lined bars of the old capital. 

You could catch a buzz just standing on the streets of King’s Landing. Its constant throb dared you to keep up or get out of the way. 

After becoming the host of Westeros’s top-rated morning show and moving into this penthouse with the Prime Minister’s oldest son, she placed herself firmly in the “keep up” category. 

“Not bad, huh?” Joffrey whispered in her ear the night they moved in. He wouldn’t live anywhere but “the top of the fucking world.” He was a Baratheon in name but possessed none of his father's political or military skills; like most of his mother’s family, he preferred board rooms. “Fuck the Capitol. King’s Landing is a city for kings and conquerors,” he said, eyes glittering like wildfire. “And you’ll be my queen.” 

When he slipped slender fingers up her dress that first night on their balcony, to her surprise, she was ready. She’d always been slow to heat up, foremost concerned with making it good for him. But in their new home, with the night breeze caressing the spots Joff often neglected and the city she loved sprawled below, she didn’t just endure his affections; she even managed to come. 

_What a silly twat you were._

Or a silly bird. That’s what Sandor had called her the morning of her wedding. Helping her out of the stretch SUV in front of the Sept of Baelor, the grumbling security guard said she was flying right into a gilded cage. 

_“Too busy singing your pretty songs to see the bars closing behind you.”_

He was wrong. Sansa saw the bars early; she simply chose to ignore them. 

Like the fact that Joff so rarely cared about getting her off. That should have been a sign. 

Or that he couldn’t get along with her family. Try as she might, she never forgot the year she took him home for her mother’s annual Feast of the Seven Dinner. Right at the table, over Nann’s roasted pheasant and green beans, Joff and Arya got into a blow-up where he’d called her a “loud-mouthed cunt” and she, in turn, threatened to geld him and “wear his baby stag balls on a bracelet.” After that, Joff stopped going North with her. He barely acknowledged her family at their wedding.

Or how his temper ticked up from entitled to tyrannical when whispers of his father’s bastards started to leak into the media. The first two, women conceived before Robert married Cersei, didn’t bother him as much. It was the investment banker, Edric Storm, with his picture-perfect Baratheon features that tilted Joff toward the edge. Had him sniping at her more often. Twisting her wrists when he thought she wasn’t listening to him. Not even hiding his disregard for her pleasure when he took her in the middle of the night.

The night of her brother’s Parliament speech was the final push.

Robb’s handsome face and commanding voice on the mounted 4k television, making an impassioned case for removing Robert Baratheon from office. 

The loud crash of a crystal decanter shattering against the wall. 

Joff’s lanky body angled lazily on one of the white leather chairs, his green eyes lit with cruelty. 

Two bodyguards flanking his sides and no sign of Sandor, who normally worked nights in the penthouse after driving Joff home from the office. 

_“Leave her face. I like her pretty.”_

That was a lie. With her rich auburn hair and crystal blue eyes, she had to remind him of Robb. He left her face because she worked in television and he didn’t want to get caught.

_“Where’s the Young Wolf now? Ruin his status as the Republic’s new darling to save you, will he? If he gave a shit about you, he wouldn’t get on TV running his cunt mouth about my father. Doesn’t he know that Lannisters always pay their debts?”_

The debt was paid in an intricate web of purple bruises on her torso. 

Sadist brat that he was, Joff wasn’t wrong. Robb’s career _would_ be ruined because Robb would beat his brains out. As would Jon. And Arya. And her Uncle Benjen. Hell, her Uncle Edmure might even load his shotgun. 

If she ever told them. 

Her dirty little secret was hers alone until the morning after the Republic’s Gala. 

“I noticed the rash on your back when we were trying on clothes at Lynesse’s last week,” Margaery Tyrell-Baratheon said matter-of-factly over mimosas. She’d invited Sansa to brunch in the private dining hall of the Orton Tower at the God’s Eye before they headed back to their respective homes. 

It took Sansa a moment to process the remark. _W_ _hat rash?_ Then she remembered: she and Margaery had tried on dresses the week prior. She thought the bruises from Joff’s last “bad night” had faded. Apparently, they hadn’t. 

Her friend and aunt-in-law slipped her a tiny purple vial filled with white powder. With her doe eyes pinned to the menu, Marge spoke in a tone that suggested she was recommending a new hairstylist or foundation. “This should clear it right up.” 

The woman could have offered a friendly ear, or a safe space to escape, or seven hells—a divorce lawyer. Instead, she’d given her the means to murder her husband without blinking. Without a single inquiry about the scars on her body. 

Sansa had heard the adage about Tyrell women and thorns, but gods be good. 

Staring into the Blackwater, Sansa thumbs the vial in the pocket of her silk robe. There has to be another way out of this. She never imagined she’d be a murderer. 

_Never imagined you’d be an abuse victim, either._

Inside the apartment, the front door creaks open, followed by her husband’s typically light footfalls. Sansa downs the rest of her cocktail and sighs into the cool night air. 

_Please. Let tonight be easy._


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T/W: This chapter contains scenes that depict domestic violence.

_“Has the race for Prime Minister begun? With current Prime Minister Randall Tarly’s pledge to leave office after completing his predecessor’s failed term, several elected officials across the Republic are signaling bids for the Prime Minister’s seat._

_"Sources in the Reach indicate that Councilman Renly Baratheon has his eye on the office, perhaps hoping to restore his family name after his eldest brother’s shameful impeachment earlier this year. And out west, there are whispers of a potential Lannister run. Could the family’s golden son, Sergeant Major Jaime Lannister, finally be stepping into politics?_

_"This has been Roslin Frey with your morning news update. Stay tuned for Good Morning, Westeros with Myranda Royce sitting in for Sansa Stark.”_

Sipping coffee as the sun rises over downtown King’s Landing, a shirtless, messy-haired Daemon Sand smirks at the juxtaposition playing out on the wall of TV screens in his home office: Roslin Frey’s angelic face reporting news on one screen and her fiance tiptoeing out of Sarella Sand’s apartment at the crack of dawn on the other. 

_Not even a wrinkle in his suit_ , Daemon thinks. _A politician, through and through._

It’s Daemon’s job to know things about the republic’s key players. For starters, he knows that Councilman Renly Baratheon prefers the company of his handsome brother-in-law Loras to that of his gorgeous wife. 

He knows that Tywin Lannister, CEO of the Lannister Oil & Gas Company, has no hope of putting his eldest son in the Prime Minister’s office. Jaime won’t even leave active duty long enough to take a wife, let alone dive into Westeros’s treacherous political arena. 

And, thanks to his _other_ job—keeping tabs on his boss’s daughters—he knows that Councilman Robb Stark, in town for a quick meeting with Renly to discuss joining the Baratheon ticket as a Deputy PM candidate, spent the night in Sarella Sand’s bed. 

He has to admit that Sarella looks well and truly fucked. Her buttery light brown skin glows in the morning sunlight creeping through the windows of her apartment. She’s wrapped in a slinky, curve-hugging robe sipping coffee, clicking away at her laptop, and occasionally biting her lip as if temporarily distracted by memories of the previous evening. 

_So the Wolfling’s a decent lay. Good. She shouldn’t settle for anything less._

His eyes trace down her neck, wondering if she still sighs when bitten riiiiight there where her neck meets her shoulder. How it feels to take her from behind now that years of running have lifted her ass and toned her thighs. 

It’s been fifteen years. 

Fifteen years since a knobby-kneed, too-clever-for-her-own good Sarella matter-of-factly approached him with an outline about why he should be her first. 

_“A: You’re a manwhore, so I won’t fall for you. B: You’re too afraid of Oberyn to seduce me with false pretenses. And… C: I want someone who knows what they’re doing. Word around Sunspear is that you do.”_

At eighteen, she was cute. A know-it-all. Strong-willed and endlessly curious. He’d enjoyed their afternoons in the Sunspear poolhouse, learning her body and watching the revelation of her own pleasure bloom across her naked skin. 

Daemon knew that girl would be a force; all of the Sand Snakes were. He didn’t know she’d be so… _arresting_. So self-possessed. That she’d harness and wield the intensity she inherited from her father with such ease. 

That she’d look so fucking good doing it. 

And when she’s angry? _Fuck_. Had she bothered to look down when they shared an elevator at the Republic’s Gala, she would have seen his cock bursting through his suit pants with the desire to push her against one of the mirrored walls and fuck the sass right out of her. 

The fact that Stark had been inside her minutes prior only made him want her more. Experience told him she’d be up for a quick fuck at a public event; he _didn’t_ know she was ruthless enough to fuck a nearly married man while his fiancee waited upstairs. 

As for Stark? Eh. Daemon’s always believed a little competition is good for the soul.

The buzz of his phone vibrating across his desk interrupts his thoughts and he’s greeted by a photo of the naked woman in his bed with her legs spread and three fingers knuckle-deep in the spot he thoroughly acquainted himself with last night.

_“Should I finish without you?”_

Look at that. And he’s already hard. Be a shame to let it go to waste just because its intended is inconveniently absent. 

_“Make yourself cum first_ ,” he types into the phone. _“I want to hear you down the hall.”_

As he waits, he watches Sarella take a call of her own. “This is Sarella Sand. Oh. Good morning, Sansa. What can I do for you?” 

A high-pitched wail echoing through his condo calls him to the task at hand. What’s her name again? Baela? Alyssa? Something too Targaryen for a brunette restaurant hostess. 

Or was she a photographer? 

“Another time, ‘Rella,” he whispers. Then he turns off the control panel and strolls toward his bedroom. 

* * *

A refrain of Sansa Stark’s terse requests plays in Sarella’s head as she marches into the office, the click of her stilettos on the hardwood floor announcing her arrival. 

_“My husband. He...he...abuses me.”_

_“I need to leave my marriage quickly and discreetly. No one can know right now. Not my family. Especially not Jon or Robb.”_

“Jon!” Sarella calls as she barrels toward the Sphinx Consultants conference room. 

A head of dark curly hair pokes into the hall. “Yeah?” 

“You’re on the Chataya Zo case. The D.A. is submitting a petition for a warrant this morning. I want her home and office wiped _today_. Take Sam.” 

“On it.” Jon nods, coming out of his office in less than 60 seconds with his jacket in hand. 

_That was easy._

“Nym! Obara!” Sarella shouts. “Conference room! Two minutes!” 

In five minutes, the boys are out of the building and the three Sands are in the conference room, papers scattered across the table and profiles of Joffrey Baratheon and Sansa Stark projected on the mounted flat-screen TV. 

“I can’t believe we’re not telling Jon,” Nym says, echoing the voice in the back of Sarella’s head that’s nagged her all morning. Except that voice is also worried about another Stark man. The one whose head was between her legs mere hours before Sansa called.

Sarella folds her arms over her chest and nods at Obara. “What would you do if this was one of us?” 

“I’d put Joffrey Baratheon’s head in a fucking bag and send it to Casterly Rock. Then I’d kick _your_ ass for letting him live long enough for me to get to him." 

Sarella glares back at Nym as if to say “I rest my case.” 

They’re looking at a two-phase plan. First, they have to get Sansa out of the penthouse she shares with Joffrey where Lannister security guards have her under surveillance. Then, the divorce settlement. As much as Sansa wants to end it quietly, Joffrey is an abuser and a bully. He won’t go down without a fight.

“Obara, what do we have on the apartment?” 

"I talked to the ex-bodyguard, Clegane. He says they've got four men on her," Obara traces printouts of the penthouse’s floor plan. "Two at the elevator. Two at the apartment door. Without Snow, we need two more bodies inside—one of them needs to be a shooter—and a getaway driver.” 

"What about Brienne?" Nym asks. “The woman's a military-trained Amazon with a hero complex. Rescuing a princess from a tower is right up her alley.” 

Nym’s right. If any job will bring Brienne Tarth back into the fold, this is it. As for the shooter, Sarella knows exactly who to call. 

_Unfortunately._

“I’ll handle Brienne.” Sarella sighs and turns to Nymeria. “Call Daemon Sand.” 

Her sister raises a sculpted brow. “ _That_ should be interesting.” 

“Indeed,” Sarella murmurs, remembering their encounter at the Republic’s Gala. Of all the people to catch her post-restroom coitus with Robb… She spent the entire ride back up to the ballroom wanting to push him down the elevator shaft. 

“If you didn’t need me here collecting intel, I’d drive,” Nym says.

With her collection of vintage sports cars, Nymeria can expertly whip anything on four wheels, but since she’s unable, Sarella volunteers. Obara trusts her younger sisters to handle themselves generally, but she’d smack Sarella into the middle of next week before she lets her traipse into a covert extraction mission. 

It doesn’t matter that Sarella’s technically her boss, she knows her limits. 

“What do you have on Joffrey?” she asks Nymeria. 

“Other than him being an entitled coke addict who beats the shit out of his wife? Nothing yet, but I put feelers out. I’ll dig into it while you’re in King’s Landing.”

“Pull _everything_ we’ve got on the Lannisters.” Sarella pulls on her jacket. “I don’t care if it’s a disgruntled maid who got fired forty years ago, we’ll need all the dirt we can find.” 

“Nothing on the Baratheons?” 

She shakes her head. “Joffrey’s an insufferable mama’s boy. He hates his father and the feeling’s mutual. Obara, I’ll pick up Brienne and meet you at the airfield in an hour.” 

By the time she parks her white Audi s7 at Brienne’s apartment complex, she’s received word from Nymeria that Daemon will meet them in King’s Landing, an extraction plan from Obara, and an email from Sansa confirming that she’s safe for now.

Sarella adjusts the belt on her jacket and is flooded with flashbacks from the night before: Robb tugging the belt of her robe, pinning her against the front door, and sliding a hand between her legs as soon as he walked into her apartment. His ragged breaths and gravely “I love yous” as she rode him to climax in her bed. 

_“Take it. Just like that, love.”_

_“I love you, Sarella. Fuck. I love you so much.”_

Waking up in the warmth of his broad, solid body with his nose nuzzling her neck. 

_I can’t believe you’re not telling him..._

She reminds herself that Robb isn’t her client; Sansa is. And what her client needs is another able body to help her escape Joffrey’s penthouse of horrors. _That_ is her priority. 

Squaring her shoulders, Sarella knocks on Brienne’s door and quiets the voice in the back of her mind wondering if Robb and Jon will ever forgive her.

* * *

The last person Brienne Tarth expects to see on her doorstep at 9:00 AM on a Wednesday is her former boss. 

But there she is. Sarella Sand. Dressed to the nines in a cream-colored belted trench coat with sleek black hair falling in loose, soft waves around her perfect no-makeup make-up face.

Of course, she shows up when Brienne is wearing ratty old Military Academy sweats with unbrushed hair. 

_At least my apartment’s clean_ , she thinks as Sarella walks in and assesses her home. It’s a decent-sized one-bedroom apartment in the city’s interior, away from Oldtown’s scenic river views. Her father would probably pay for a nicer place, but her pride won’t allow it. 

Sarella doesn’t sit. Instead, she stands in the middle of the apartment—as if she’s cataloged every facet of Brienne’s post-Sphinx Consultants life— and declares: “You’re bored.” 

Brienne blinks. “I beg your pard—”

“Your life is too neat. Too...” Sarella surveys the apartment again and shrugs. “...tidy. You spend twenty hours a week with obnoxious little shits—trust me; I used to be one—who think you’re worthless because there’s no ‘maester’ in front of your name and only enroll in your class because it’s a 101 requirement. The only difference between this and your glorified internship at Renly’s office is you’re not torturing yourself daydreaming about a man you can’t have but at least then you _felt_ something on a daily basis. Now, you’re just going through the motions, climbing the walls and scrubbing every inch of your apartment to burn off the excess energy. You’re bored to tears.” 

Following her ill-advised night with Jaime Lannister when she was a student at Storm’s End, routines helped Brienne beat back the self-loathing. She split her time between class, the library, the gym, and her internship; turning down invitations to drink or hang out because that’s what landed her in bed with her deeply, _deeply_ emotionally damaged drill sergeant. And it paid off; she went from a “pretty good” student to graduating at the top of her class with letters of recommendation from some of the highest-ranking professors at the Military Academy. 

Once she left Sphinx Consultants, it made sense to do the same. Take the adjunct professor job at The Citadel. Work out every morning at 6:00 AM. Teach classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Manage paperwork and lesson plans on Mondays and Wednesdays, and dedicate weekends to law school applications. This was how she took control, how she found her footing when her life was unstable. 

Even when the empty loquacity of her students’ essays made her eyes roll and she forgot _why_ she wanted to go to law school while writing admissions essays, she had to believe that her neatly ordered existence was for the best.

Because if she paused for one second to analyze the tedium, she’d realize she was bored out of her bloody mind. 

But how the hell did Sarella know that? 

_Because Sarella Sand knows everything._

This is why Brienne left Sphinx Consultants in the first place.

“You came to my home unannounced at 9:00 AM on a Wednesday to tell me that I’m bored?” 

There’s a hint of respect on Sarella’s face when she answers: “A client needs to escape an abusive partner. The home’s heavily-guarded. We need an experienced soldier.” 

No schemes, no manipulations. It's the riskiest task Sarella’s ever asked her to complete, but one she’s uniquely qualified for. If she can help someone out of a bad situation...

“When?” 

“Now. There’s a jet waiting to take us to King’s Landing. No need to get dressed. We’ll have gear on-site.” 

Brienne almost asks if she’s sure they’ll have gear that fits _her_ , but this is Sarella. Of course, they will. 

With a nod, she goes to her linen closet and retrieves a camouflaged duffle bag containing a shoulder holster, an ankle holster, two 9mms, and a .22. 

“I’m ready.” 

“She comes with an arsenal,” Sarella says with a smirk. “I knew you were a Warrior in a Suit.” 

* * *

The poison saved Sansa’s life. Though, not in the way she expected. 

She had no idea what to do when she stepped out of the shower and found Joffrey in the bathroom with the tiny purple vial in his hand. 

_“What the fuck are you doing with this?”_

She swallowed once. Twice. Tried to summon words as her mouth went dry and her throat closed up. She watched her husband; his emerald stare hard and cruel. 

Accusatory. 

But he couldn’t have known it was poison. It was supposed to blend in with his stash so he’d snort it and put them both out of their misery. Was he…? 

Angry? Because he thought...she _stole_ from him? 

She’d been beaten because he hated Robert, because he hated Robb, because he hated Tyrion, because he hated failing at his job at Lannister Oil & Gas. 

Because he hated himself. 

But over a thousand dollar vial of coke? 

Something in Sansa snapped. 

_“It’s poison. I’m thinking of killing myself. Because death just might be preferable to another minute in this wretched marriage.”_

The back of his hand slammed against her mouth before she could utter another word. 

It took a moment to register that he’d been man enough to do it himself for once. That he’d hit her with his left hand and the diamonds in the gaudy monstrosity he called a wedding band had cut her.

With shaking fingers, she touched her slick bottom lip. 

Then looked up at her husband. 

His narrow shoulders heaved in his tailored Oxford shirt as those eyes, his glittering, god awful eyes, locked on hers. 

She didn’t realize she’d raised her hand until her open palm crashed across his cheek. 

The crack of her hand against skin and bone—one of the cheekbones his cunt mother incessantly bragged about—filled the bathroom with a sweet symphony so she hit him again. And once more before his fist exploded into her face. 

That was the moment. She’d interviewed domestic violence victims, drug and gambling addicts...people who’d endured all manner of personal difficulties and each had a moment they described as “rock bottom.”

This was hers. 

When she curled up in a ball, naked on the bathroom floor and absorbed the blows; when those assholes Meryn Trant and Boris Blount picked her up and deposited her on the futon in her home office because Joff couldn’t _bear_ to sleep next to her in their bed…

Even as she whimpered “Please,” “I’m sorry,” and “I’ll never do it again,” she was merely giving Joff what he needed: to feel like he’d conquered her. To prove he could conquer _something_. 

He’d have no reason to believe this time was different than any other. A hiccup. An “incident.” Sansa Stark was a dim-wit. A trophy who’d worshipped him since before she was old enough to drink. She may have temporarily lost her wits, but she’d never _leave_. Not him. Not the Great Joffrey Lannister Baratheon. 

He’d leave her alone with his goons to sort herself out and no one would think to confiscate her phone or laptop. 

She called Sarella Sand before the door could click shut on his way out. 

Sansa forces her aching body off the futon and inspects herself under the harsh light of the guest bathroom. The purple starburst on her cheek is garish against her fair skin and bright auburn hair. Her bottom lip split down the middle and swollen. 

Then there was her torso; where she’d worn a hidden map of Joffrey’s rage and insecurities for months. She caressed the continents of faded blues and purples, careful to avoid the fresh ones from last night.

 _“My sweet girl, what have you done to yourself?”_

Father… 

Eighteen years since his death and Sansa still sees her father’s forlorn gray eyes as clear as day. He'd be angry with Robert. He’d wring Joffrey’s scrawny neck. But he’d be heartbroken for her. 

_"Gods be good, why would you ever believe you deserved this?"_

Sansa places her hands on the counter and studies her battered reflection. “Because I was a fool, Father. Because I was a damned fool.” 

To her surprise, she doesn’t hear the apartment door crash open four hours later when Sarella's team arrives. She only hears the loud thud of a body being thrown against the wall. 

“WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?!” 

Sandor. She wasn’t sure if he’d come when she gave Sarella his number, but here he is. Coming to her rescue. 

Glass shatters. “YOU PUT YOUR HANDS ON HER, YOU FUCKIN’ CUNT?!” 

“Clegane!” a throaty female voice with a thick Dornish accent warns. “We’re here for Sansa, not—Hey, asshole! On your fucking knees before I put your brains on the wall.” 

Sarella didn’t exaggerate when she said she said her team could handle the Lannisters' security guards. 

“Ms. Stark?” the woman calls. “The coast is clear. We have people in the hall who will escort you out.” 

Sandor’s face, when she walks into the living room, is her undoing. He has one facial expression: a permanent scowl that amplifies the menace in his half-burned visage. One look at him tells her that her hoodie and oversized sunglasses do nothing to hide the damage to her face. Tears well in her eyes as Sandor’s go wide with pained shock and for a split second, she can feel him hurting for her. 

Then his eyes cloud with disgust and he backhands a kneeling Meryn Trant with the butt of his pistol.

“All good,” the tall, muscular Dornishwoman says into a walkie talkie. “She’s on her way to the elevator.” 

This is how it ends. Pieces of the glass coffee table she painstakingly selected at her feet, blood droplets in the white carpet. Her plush loveseat, the one she curled up on with a glass of Arbor Gold after a long workday, turned over on its side. The men her husband paid to hit her, face down on the floor with guns pointed at their heads. 

"Ms. Stark,” the Dornishwoman says. “We don’t have much time.” 

With a nod, Sansa steps into the hall where she’s greeted by another absurdly tall woman; this one pale and blond with gentle blue eyes. With another blink, she recognizes her as Selwyn Tarth’s daughter.

“Ms. Stark,” she says in a voice that matches her eyes. “You’ll need to put this on before we go. You can change in the elevator.” 

“This” is a gray jumpsuit identical to the one Brienne, Sandor, and the Dornishwoman are wearing. 

Again, Sansa nods and lets Brienne lead her toward the elevator where a tanned, sandy-haired man who looks like a runway model has a rifle pointed at two more Lannister guards. 

The door to the stairwell swings open and a tinny, familiar voice makes Sansa’s blood turn to ice. 

“What the fuck?!” 

A chorus of cocked guns erupts around her as the guard at Joffrey’s side draws his weapon and Sarella’s team draws theirs. 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?!” Joffrey shouts. 

_Of course_. 

Of course, she couldn’t quietly slither away from her life with him. It was always going to come down to the two of them face-to-face. She wishes she could summon the irrational anger that made her lash out last night, but she's too damned tired. From the night before. From the last six months. Hell, from the last eight years. She can't handle those evil eyes or that tone in his voice that still makes her flinch. She just wants to run away. Why can't she just run away?

_“You’re a Stark, sweet girl.”_

Yes, she remembers. She’s a goddamned Stark.

Slowly, she pulls the Chanel sunglasses off and meets his hard glare with one of her own. “It’s over Joffrey. I’m leaving you.” 

“Bullshit,” he spits, stepping forward. “Get in the fucking—” he doesn’t finish his sentence before another gun clicks and Sandor growls “One more step and I’ll blow your cunt head off.” 

Joffrey chuckles. “So you’ve summoned the Dog to save you, heh? I knew he wanted to fuck you. You must’ve swallowed his cock _good_ to make him think he can get away with this. Well, he won’t. One phone call and I’ll have this whole building locked down and you lot will be arrested.” 

“No, you won’t, Mr. Baratheon,” Sarella's cool voice asserts through the static of a walkie talkie. 

Joff’s eyes narrow on her “What the fuck is that?”

“This is Sarella Sand. Your wife is my client. Those are my people—two of whom are government-trained assassins, by the way—and here's what's going to happen…” 

“A fixer? You think a _fixer_ will—” 

“...You’ll step aside and Ms. Stark will walk out of the building. You’ll do so in the next 90 seconds, otherwise, I will have every major news network in Westeros camped outside with tents and drones waiting with _bated_ breath for an explanation as to why the flailing executive cokehead son of the disgraced, alcoholic ex-Prime Minister who couldn’t keep his dick in his pants has Westeros’s _beloved_ morning news anchor trapped in her own home. And I’ll have them here before you can blink; let alone call your Uncle Tyrion to come clean up another one of your messes.” 

Seven hells. She's good.

“I have Wylla Manderly at WNTH waiting on another line, Mr. Baratheon.” 

Never taking his eyes off her, Joffrey steps aside and orders his man to drop his weapon. With a deep exhale, Sansa puts her shades back on and enters the elevator. Behind her, Sandor stops just short of the door. 

“Come near her again, I’ll cut your fuckin' balls off.” 

She turns in time to see him spit at Joffrey’s feet. 

“This isn’t over, _wife_ ,” Joffrey says as the elevator doors close.

No, it’s not. But for now, Sansa Stark is free. And that is enough. 

**_To be continued..._ **


	3. Part Three

Jon Snow can’t be still anymore. 

He tried. When he walked into Sarella’s apartment after a long day at a brothel—which should have been fun, but was not—and saw his cousin curled up on the white couch, her hair pulled off of her face revealing a split lip and a fading purple bruise on her cheek, the rage flowed through his body like lava. Had he given in to it, he would have broken something. Maybe the lamp on the table in Sarella’s entryway. Or the wall. With his fist. But in a bone-weary voice he’d never heard before, Sansa asked him to sit. 

So he sat and he listened. 

Now, he wears a hole in Sarella’s living room floor as he paces the condo, trying to cool the flames engulfing his mind at the moment. He’s going to kill Joffrey Baratheon. A bullet between his eyes. A rope around his neck as he wordlessly begs for his life. Either way, the fucker’s a dead man. 

“You can’t say _anything_ , Jon. Not to Robb, not to Benjen, not to Arya. Not until the divorce is final.” 

That comes from Sarella, but Jon’s eyes stay on his cousin. 

“Sansa—” 

“You’re angry for me. I understand,” she says, her blue eyes sad but firm. “But this didn’t happen to you; it happened to me. And I want to move on with my life as quickly as possible.” 

_It wouldn’t have happened if you’d listened when the whole bloody family warned you he was a worthless cunt._

“That _fucker_ ,” he seethes, running hands through his hair as he paces Sarella’s living room. “He—” 

“Is not worth losing everything I’ve worked for. Everything Robb’s worked for. We have _careers_ , Jon. Reputations. Getting the shit kicked out of me for the last eight months is bad enough; I won’t set our lives on fire to go to war with the Lannisters over my shitty marriage.” 

“He could’ve _killed_ you and you’re talking about bloody careers and reputations? Gods be good, you sound like...” 

“My mother? Yes, well. Even broken clocks are right twice a day.” The cool mask falling over her face mirrors the look Aunt Cat would get when she was finished listening to whatever Uncle Ned had to say. 

_Son of a bitch_. 

That blonde prick son of a bitch who busted up his cousin’s face and scared her so badly that she called a fixer instead of her own family to escape him. He could fly to King’s Landing and have his hands wrapped around Joffrey Baratheon’s throat in three hours. He could call Robb and he’d pull some military strings and have assassins at Joffrey’s door in even less time. 

_Assassins…_

“Who went with you to get her?” Jon finally asks Sarella. 

“Obara, Brienne, Daemon Sand, her ex-bodyguard.” 

“And this morning when you sent me to Chataya’s? You needed me out of the way.”

“Jon—” 

“Answer the fucking question.” 

“I asked her not to involve you,” Sansa says. 

That isn’t the fucking point. Sarella knows it when Jon glares at her, ignoring his cousin. He’s not her subordinate; he’s her friend. She doesn’t keep this kind of shit from him. 

“You’re staying at my place tonight, Sansa.” 

He senses Sarella’s unease in his peripheral vision but keeps his eyes on Sansa. “You had people break into an abuser’s home and take what he believes is his _property_ from him. I was a cop—I’ve seen this shit. If he comes for you, he’ll look here first.” _Get your shit and let’s go_ , he wants to say but stops himself, remembering Sansa is a woman grown. “I’ll wait while you get your things.” 

Jon’s grateful when Sarella nods in agreeance. He doesn’t have it in him to argue with her tonight. He’d prefer not to say another word to Sarella Sand tonight if he can help it. 

“You’re upset. I get it. But Sansa’s the client—”

“She’ll stay with me until her case is closed,” he says, coldly. “I’ll work from home and escort her to the office when needed. _Boss._ ” 

“Seriously, Jon?” 

Just then, Sansa comes back with an overnight bag, donning one of Sarella’s trench coats and a pair of oversized sunglasses. “I’m ready.” 

With one last frustrated glance at Jon, Sarella turns her attention back to Sansa. “My team will get started on your divorce tomorrow. I’ll call you with updates.” 

“Thank you again, Sarella. Truly.” 

They saved her life today. Obara, Brienne, and even Daemon put themselves in the line of fire to get Sansa out of that penthouse. He owed _them_ his gratitude. His boss and so-called friend, however… 

This is foolish. What matters most is that Sansa’s safe and has the savviest problem-solver in Westeros handling her divorce. 

Perhaps he’ll feel that way tomorrow. Tonight, he escorts his cousin out of Sarella’s apartment without another look in her direction. 

* * *

“This family keeps their shit locked tighter than a septa’s legs.” 

It’s the morning following Sansa’s rescue and the Sphinx Consultants team—minus Jon, who is sulking in his apartment across town—is gathered around a paltry amount of dirt on the Lannisters. Joffrey’s a barely functioning coke addict. Tyrion’s budget for sex workers dwarfs what most Westerosi regions collect in tax money. Cersei’s “time away from the spotlight” following her divorce from Robert is a cover for a stint at the Fourth King’s Spa and Rehabilitation Center (aptly named for the alcohol-addled King Aegon Targaryen IV) and a tummy tuck. 

Obara stretches in her seat and snatches an energy drink off the conference table. “Are you implying that we just need to call Father to crack this thing open?” 

“Haha,” Sarella mumbles, staring at the photos on the wall with her arms folded. They have one card to play in this divorce settlement: Tywin’s desire to put a Lannister in the Prime Minister’s office. If he convinces Jaime to run, which is a slim possibility, Jaime has the juice to override a Joffrey-related scandal. If it’s Tywin’s younger brother Kevan as Sarella suspects it will be, his campaign will be trampled by negative headlines about Joffrey’s abuse. Either way, the family doesn’t need Joffrey drawing negative attention. 

It would be fine if her threats to plaster photos of Sansa’s bruised body all over the media had any teeth. 

She was on the verge of angry tears last night when Sansa revealed the patches of discolored skin on her back, abdomen, and sides. She knew Joffrey was a coward, but those contusions were the mark of a monster. 

If she can’t make Joffrey pay, she will make certain the Lannisters see exactly what they’re enabling. “I want the photos I took of Sansa last night in the conference room when Tyrion Lannister gets here,” Sarella checks her watch. “I’m going for a walk to clear my head.” 

She’s barely taken a full inhale of fresh air outside of her office before a rumpled-haired Daemon Sand greets her on the sidewalk. 

His tall, lean body is in all black from head to toe: hip-length trench coat, jeans, and a long-sleeved thermal T-shirt with a hint of black ink creeping above the collar. In stark contrast to his dark clothing, his vivid eyes twinkle with mischief. 

“Shouldn’t you be rifling through our underwear drawers for wiretaps or something?” she asks without breaking stride. 

His long legs match her pace easily. “You know better than that, ‘Rella. When I want to see your panties, I’ll ask for them.” 

“What do you want? I’m working.” 

“I’m sticking around until you wrap up this case. Your father doesn’t trust the Lannisters and I’m inclined to agree with him.” 

“Tywin’s not going to assassinate me from a rooftop, Daemon.” 

“He won’t,” he says, a single dimple dotting his cheek. “Because I’m walking with you. Where are we going?”

Sarella rolls her eyes. “I need to think before meeting with Tyrion to start negotiations for the divorce. He’s wily. I feel like I’m about to be blindsided.” 

“You’ll be fine. You were amazing yesterday.”

So was he; surprisingly focused without drama or ceremony. But she won’t tell him that nor can she accept his praise without waiting for a punchline or sarcastic remark. When it doesn’t come, she stops in her tracks. “That’s it?”

He steps back to look in her eyes and for a single moment when the sun lights his hair just so, she sees 22-year-old Daemon at Sunspear sparring with Oberyn under the relentless Dornish sun. Shirtless, tattooed, and sweat-slicked; gliding across the yard with the grace of a jaguar. He was a rock star at the palace. The bastard son of a high-ranking Dornish nobleman and his Lysene paramour, he was a perfect marriage of Andal and Lysene genetics: permanently-tanned golden skin, a fine face with a chiseled jaw, and eyes like a cloudless spring day. Four years in the Dornish Royal Marine Service added lean muscle to his gangly frame and she’d lose hours memorizing its hard planes and the ink that adorned them. 

_“Do you get this wet when you’re alone?”_ he’d asked that first time in the pool house with his nimble fingers interlaced with hers as they slid over the silky heat between her legs. _“Show me how you fuck yourself.”_

Gods know he’s given her plenty of reasons to regret their time together since then, but even looking at him in his overbearing, arrogant 37-year-old form, she can’t. 

“What? You were resourceful, played to your team’s strengths, pivoted when an obstacle arose, got your client out in one piece. You don’t need me to tell you you’re brilliant.” 

Usually, she wouldn’t. Right now, from someone as adept at high-level problem-solving as Daemon, it’s a well-timed compliment. 

“Lannister has the advantage,” he continues. “He knows what his client wants, what your client wants, and he knows you’ll bluff about exposing Joffrey. Joffrey's a lunatic. You can't anticipate what he wants so let Tyrion blindside you. Plan your counterpunch once you know what you’re dealing with.” 

She hates being on her backfoot in any situation, but Daemon’s right. Her best bet is to play it straight and let Tyrion land the first hit. “Not a terrible idea."

“I’m not your overseer, Sarella. I’m a resource. At your disposal whenever you need.” He almost sounds sincere but for the hint of innuendo in his voice when he says "at your disposal whenever you need."

 _Not on your life_ , she thinks. _Not after…_

Just, no. 

“Don’t tell me you’re exclusive with Stark. While he’s engaged. How does that work?” 

“Typical,” she mumbles as they round the corner back toward her office. “However it works with whomever I fuck is none of your business. If you want to be resourceful, start by worrying less about who’s in my bed.” 

If her change in tone affects him, Daemon doesn’t show it, leaning in to whisper in her ear. “What about bathrooms? I can still hear your cute little whimpers. Did he gag you or does he not know how to make you scream?” 

Just like in the elevator at the Republic’s Gala, hazy, fragmented memories flood her mind. Daemon, fluid and sinewy, hips rolling into her with her wrists pinned at her sides coaxing one screaming orgasm after another out of her quivering body with chants of _“Give me one more, ‘Rella. Fucking drown me in it.”_ Robb’s big body, gripping her thighs and taking her hard and possessive against her bedroom door two nights ago. 

_Will he ever want you again once he learns you’ve kept this from him?_

“This conversation has outlived its usefulness,” she snaps, abruptly turning away from Daemon’s smug expression. 

“Lannister’s good,” he shouts at her back as she marches up the stairs. “You’re better. Don’t let him rattle you.” 

She grumbles her gratitude to the door before slamming it behind her, leaving thoughts of Robb, Daemon, and anyone else not named Sansa Stark, Joffrey Baratheon, or Tyrion Lannister outside. 

* * *

A good soldier sees her mission through to the end. That’s what Brienne tells herself when she walks into the offices of Sphinx Consultants for the first time in months. She’s surprisingly at ease, enveloped in the familiarity of the deep forest green walls and rich mahogany floors as if she’s where she belongs. 

She didn’t sleep much once she returned from King’s Landing last night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Sansa’s weary battered face and heard the venom in Joffrey’s voice when he spoke to her. _“This isn’t over, wife_ ,” he’d hissed like some villainous serpent in a fairy tale. 

If there was anything else she could do to make sure Sansa was never burdened by that... _creature_ again, she would. 

The click of stilettos accompanied by Nym greeting her with “Well, if it isn’t _G.I. Jonquil_?" in her patented Dornish drawl makes Brienne smile. 

“We figured you’d be back,” the willowy Dornishwoman says as she walks Brienne to the conference room. “You’re just in time. Tyrion Lannister’s here to start settlement negotiations.” 

A familiar scene unfolds in the conference room. Sam, Obara, and Sarella on one side of the table with Tyrion settling into a seat opposite them. Brienne’s not seen him since the Republic’s Gala and even then, only from afar. Today, he’s dressed for business; a black suit tailored to his stunted body and a pair of reading glasses covering his mismatched eyes. Stubby fingers fold together on the conference table as he takes in his surroundings. “Impressive office you have here,” he says in the aristocratic tone popular among the old families of the West. “Warm enough to comfort a client in distress, sophisticated enough to intimidate your opponents,” he angles his chin down and peers over his glasses. “Well, those who are intimidated by sophistication. I hear I have you to thank for my big brother’s safe return to us earlier this year?” 

“If I was responsible,” Sarella answers, “I wouldn’t say. My services come with strict non-disclosure agreements.” 

Brienne quietly takes a seat next to Nymeria and whips out her notebook as Tyrion’s lips curl into an amused grin. “Of course, Ms. Sand. You’ll forgive me, haggling over oil and stocks all day gets rather dull and I’ve heard great things about how clever you are. I’m anxious for a worthy sparring partner. Shall we begin?”

Sarella matches Tyrion’s posture; her back straight and neatly manicured hands folded gracefully in front of her. “Unfortunately, Mr. Lannister, I’m here to advocate for my client; not to amuse you. But, yes, please. Let’s begin.” 

It should be a straightforward settlement. As members of old wealthy families, Sansa and Joffrey have an ironclad prenuptial agreement that states each party walks away with all previous holdings, and any shared assets and accounts are liquidated and split down the middle. The nature of their irreconcilable differences will be locked with an airtight NDA; all they have to do is sign. 

So Brienne’s jaw nearly drops when Tyrion announces that his nephew is demanding alimony. 

There are poker faces all around as a single judgmental brow climbs Sarella’s forehead. “On what grounds?” she asks.

Pushing his glasses up his small up-turned nose, Tyrion slides a stack of papers over to Sarella. “Your client draws an annual salary of $18 million a year; out-earning mine by roughly $7 million dollars, annually. My client argues that their relationship over the last eight years helped raise the public profile Sansa needed to secure her position as Westeros’s favorite morning news personality. As such, he believes he’s entitled to $4.5 million dollars a year over the next five years until the second tier of his trust fund is released and he’s able to maintain his current lifestyle on his own income. That’s a mere $37,500 a month for your client. I’ve seen her spend that much on a light shopping trip in _Lynesse’s_.” 

That bastard beat the hell out of Sansa and wants her to _pay_ for the privilege of leaving him? Brienne’s skin heats with rage. 

Sarella sighs, affecting boredom, and pushes the papers aside without looking at them. “Let’s skip to the part where you explain why Joffrey Baratheon deserves _anything_ from my client short of a restraining order or a slit throat.” 

“Ahhh,” Tyrion excitedly drums his hands on the table. “There’s that notorious Martell fierceness.” 

He has signed affidavits. From Lannister security guards, from the front desk manager at the apartment building, and one from Sansa’s own makeup artist at WKLN. All stating that Sansa carried on an extramarital affair with Sandor Clegane. That Sansa became unstable when Joffrey learned of the affair and fired Clegane and instead of re-dedicating herself to the marriage, she developed an alcohol problem and threatened to kill herself. 

If the press gets hold of any of it, Sansa’s in violation of the morality clause in her employment contract with _Good Morning, Westeros._

“So you see,” Tyrion says. “$22.5 million is a small price to pay for your client’s career.” 

Sarella’s jaw clenches. Without taking her eyes off Tyrion, she opens a manilla folder and one by one, slams photos of Sansa Stark on the conference table. Her dark, swollen cheek. Her cracked, busted lip. Photo after photo of gruesome marks on her torso. MRI scans of bruised ribs. 

Brienne is sick to her stomach. 

For a brief moment, she notes a flicker of horror in Tyrion’s eyes, but he blinks it away as quickly as it appeared. 

“Before you walk out of here today, Mr. Lannister, I want you to see what your family is enabling. The man who did _this_ to a woman he draped in his cloak and swore before the gods to protect. That _weak, entitled cunt_ you’re protecting in the name of House Lannister. _This_ is who he is. And I will make sure everyone from Dorne to the Wall knows it.”

“If you read the document I gave you, Ms. Sand, you would see the signed affidavits also describe Sansa and Sandor allegedly indulging in some, shall we say, _taboo_ inclinations. And Clegane, an ex-convict, mind you, likely got carried away with their _play._ ” 

_Monsters_ , Brienne thinks. The whole lot of them. Conniving. _Twisted_. Bloody monsters purporting themselves to be noble lions. She should have shot Joffrey in the head yesterday and put everyone out of their misery. 

_Better yet, he shouldn't have been born.  
_

“I’m guessing you’ll want to consult with your client,” Tyrion says, gathering his things. “You’ll find my card enclosed in that packet. Let’s touch base again in…” he checks his watch. “forty-eight hours? I fear letting the matter sit may create the opportunity for leaks to the gossip columns. And you know how fast news travels once Varya Snyder gets her hands on it.” 

“Obara,” Sarella says to her scowling eldest sister. “Please see Mr. Lannister out.” 

Sizing up the ex-special ops officer, Tyrion holds up a hand. “No need. I’ll find my way.” With two quick hops, he’s out of his seat and waddling out of the conference room. No sooner than he scoots out of the main door does Sarella pick up the crystal water pitcher on the table and throw it against the wall. Glass shatters and leaves water running down the dark paint.

"I want Joffrey Baratheon's head," Sarella seethes. "No one goes home until I have it."

Taking one last look at the pictures of Sansa’s pain laid out on the conference room table, Brienne takes a deep breath. 

_You’re here to finish the mission_ , she reminds herself. Seven hells, she’ll have to confront the most shameful moment of her life to do so, but what was shame and embarrassment against what Sansa suffered? 

For a Warrior in a Suit? Nothing. 

“Sarella?” Brienne says into the stunned silence. “I have something. But I need to speak to you in private.”

* * *

“Just give him the money,” Sansa says with a sigh. 

Across the kitchen counter, Jon’s gray eyes turn to slates. He’s not an ass, so he won’t say what he’s thinking but he doesn’t have to. He’s had a murderous glare since Sarella’s bombshell about what the Lannisters were accusing her of with Sandor. 

She couldn’t imagine _half_ the things they said she’d participated in. It makes her wonder if Joffrey was the one with the horrific kinks the entire time. Gods only know where he disappeared to some nights after the beatings, but he’d return sleepy and sated. 

Gods be good, she married a sick piece of shit.

But her and _Sandor_? For years, she would have sworn the man hated her, as many times as he’d basically implied that she was a vapid, empty-headed rich girl. She didn’t realize he was an ally until Joff strategically got rid of him right before he upped the ante on his cruelty. 

_Don’t pretend you’ve never thought about it_. 

The _point_ is that they didn’t. The most Sandor's ever touched her was helping her into and out of cars. Joffrey’s the only man she’s ever been with. 

“What are our other options?” Jon says to the phone, his mouth in a thin, straight line. She knows what option he prefers: him and Robb marching off to King’s Landing and beating Joffrey’s brains in. 

Braavosi father be damned, her cousin is a Stark man, through and through; teeth and claws out in an instant to protect the pack. 

What was it Father used to say? _“The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”_

She loves Jon, truly. Between him and Ghost, she’s felt as safe and protected in his loft as she would back home in Winterfell, with Jon making sure she’s rested and fed and Ghost sleeping by her feet or nustling his giant white head in her lap when she’s feeling down. He makes her miss Lady, her own husky that she had to send home when she moved in with Joffrey because the dog abhorred him. 

Which reminds her. As soon as this is over, she’s getting her bloody dog back. 

That leads her back to Joffrey wanting spousal support. _Spousal support._ A trust fund baby and high-ranking executive at a multi-billion dollar oil company needs $40,000 of his wife’s salary per month to “stay in the lifestyle to which he’s become accustomed.” It’d be pathetic if her livelihood wasn’t on the line. 

There has to be a way to make this go away. 

“I’ll write him a check for $30 million today to never hear from him again.” 

Jon’s voice turns to iron. “You won’t give him a dime. Give him 30 today, in two years, he’ll come back for 60. Or 120. He doesn't give a shit about the money. He wants to exert control over you. What do we have on the Lannisters?” 

“Something big,” Sarella says from the speakerphone. “It’s a risky play, but it’s the only card we’ve got.” 

A low growl comes from the other side of the room where Ghost lays by the fireplace, his ears pinned back and red eyes sharp. 

“Do whatever it takes,” Jon says to the phone. But Sansa sees the words he doesn’t say in his eyes: _“Because if you don’t, I will.”_

* * *

The Republic’s Armed Services base at Crakehall is a mixed-use facility, housing operations for the Air Guard, the Navy, and the Army alike, and Brienne recognizes the hum of activity around the base. Jets sliding off runways into the great blue sky, towering steel ships parked at the docks. The clusters of white, blue, and tan uniforms, stepping in rhythmic, ordered marches. It’s comforting; reminds her of the Military Academy. 

She’ll take comfort wherever she can find it.

She thought she’d misheard Sarella when she learned that _she_ would take the lead on today's assignment. She figured she’d hand the information over to the expert fixer and step out of the way, but Sarella shook her head. 

“You need to do this. He’ll have his defenses up with me; you’ll catch him off-guard,” she said. “And I think confronting this once and for all will be good for you, too.” 

She’s in a good suit, a fact which would have made little difference months ago. But it’s tailored and doesn’t make her feel like an ogre the way dresses do, so she’s walking at her full height when she enters the reception area at the Crakehall Administration Building. 

“Brienne Tarth,” she says in a confident voice she doesn’t recognize. “I’m here to see Sergeant Major Jaime Lannister.” 

Despite his lack of care for pageantry, his office reeks of old money masculinity. Biographies of old military heroes like Captain Alyn Oakenfist, General Duncan the Tall, and the current Minister of Defense, Barristan Selmy, line the bookshelves along with various trophies and medals. The wide desk is a wood even deeper and more polished than the mahogany at Sphinx Consultants. Kingswood, if Brienne has to guess. And the faint hint of cigar smoke lingers in the air as if someone had taken a few indulgent puffs and tried to blow the smoke out of the open window. 

“If you’ve finally decided to ‘Me Too’ me, it’s about bloody time. Maybe now Father will stop bugging me about running for office.” 

She hasn’t heard that voice since her first night at Sphinx Consultants when to her surprise, he’d been the victim of a kidnap for ransom. And if she’s honest, she didn’t hear _this_ voice then. He’d been tired, hoarse, and half out of his mind on painkillers after losing his right hand. 

And he’d confessed…

Everything. 

Words that made her want to scrub every trace of him from her memory and her body. 

Words that she will use against him today. 

She expects her heart to skip a beat when she finally looks at him, but surprisingly, it doesn’t. He’s still handsome, more so now that time and life have knocked some of the “pretty” off of him. His hair is shorter, the unruly beard he wore after capture is trimmed close to his face, the dark hair beginning to gray in places. And he’s filled out, quickly packing his old weight back on to the emaciated body she saw at Sphinx Consultants. 

_“She’ll never have me again...”_ he’d moaned that night, clutching the wrist that once supported his right hand. _“Not like this. That Baratheon bastard is finally out of the way and I’ll never have Cersei again. My other half...”_

It was easy to put it all together after that. The devil-may-care drill sergeant she'd had a one-night stand with was a broken man in disguise. Only someone deeply damaged would carry on as he had for what Brienne guessed was his entire adult life.

“You look different,” he says, his cat-green eyes inspecting her. “Do something with your hair? Nose job?”

Sweaty palms wrapped around the handle of her briefcase in front of her, Brienne takes a cleansing breath. 

_And now it begins..._

“I need to speak to you about your son.” 

* * *

Perhaps he was distracted by her eyes. That’s what got him that night at the Nightsong Inn. After she’d bested him in their sparring session for the basic training class he led and the few beers they shared after, he found himself lost in her eyes. Brienne Tarth had the sincerest eyes he’d ever seen. Eyes that looked like they couldn’t tell a lie. 

So different from the jade pools of dishonesty he desperately wanted to forget that night in the Stormlands. A body, powerful and solid with none of the softness of child-bearing. A mouth, kind and innocent. A mouth incapable of deception. 

For one night, he needed to lay with a woman without falsehoods between them. Without a husband she never loved. Without a secret bond they were forced to hide from the world.

Without the other men who warmed her bed when he was away. 

“I beg your pardon?” Jaime says, trying to regain his wits. “Are you saying I knocked you up all those years ago? Is there a strapping, green-eyed six-year-old with a future as a rugby player running about the Stormlands?" 

With the sternness of a strict grammar school teacher, Brienne snaps open her briefcase on his desk and begins laying out photos. 

He tilts his head, trying to make sense of what he sees. A busted lip. A black eye. A delicate female face. “What is the meaning of…” Then, it hits him. 

It’s Sansa Stark- _Baratheon_.

Brienne wants to talk to him about his so—

“Make your point, Tarth. Before I have you removed from the premises.” 

“Your _son_ did this,” Brienne points to the photo of the black eye. “And this,” the photo of the split lip. “And ordered the stooges on your family payroll to do this, and this, and this.” Faded purples and blues on an otherwise creamy torso and back. Bruised ribs on an MRI. 

_Seven hells._

He wasn’t surprised that Joffrey came out troubled. Genetics being what they were, one of Cersei’s three children was bound to be. The drunken oaf whose name Joffrey bore barely paid him any mind; that certainly hadn’t helped. 

But this…

This is repulsive. 

“What’s this to do with me?” he asks once he finds his voice again. 

“Sansa wants a divorce. And your bastard is extorting her for spousal support. I don’t know how it works in your... _family_...but you’re going to do whatever you need to do to make him back off or you and Cersei’s dirty little secrets are secrets no more.” 

Jaime whips his head away from the photos to meet her eyes. “Are you out of your bloody mind? You think _this_ is a threat? Put it on the gossip pages, will you? Without evidence? It’d disappear in a blink.”

Brienne’s shoulders flex under her expensive suit when she folds her arms. “Not if I give it to Robert Baratheon first. And if you think he needs evidence to run with the story of his haughty whore ex-wife and her pervert brother passing off a brood of bastard abominations as Baratheons, you’re the one out of your bloody mind. He only needs to line up pictures of every one of his dark-haired, blue-eyed byblows next to your three little lions of Lannister. Maybe no respectable news organization picks it up. But how long do you think it will take to have ‘hashtag: twincest’ memes with you and Cersei’s faces as the number one trending topic in Westeros, hm?”

This is not the wide-eyed, self-conscious Brienne Tarth he seduced in a bar seven years ago. Not even the horrified Brienne Tarth he whispered his secrets to in a drug-laden fever dream six months ago. 

“You wouldn’t,” he says, almost to himself. 

“Look at those photos, Jaime. What in the Warrior’s name makes you think I won’t?” She clicks her briefcase closed. “We meet with your younger brother to finalize the settlement tomorrow. The alimony and blackmail are off the table or you’ll wake up to _‘Twincest Allegations Shame Proud Lannister Lions’_ headlines the day after.” 

“Oh,” she says on her way out of the door. “And if your father thinks he’ll make me disappear, I have contingencies in place to get the information to Baratheon regardless. Good day, Sergeant Major.” 

Jaime fixes himself a glass of bourbon neat and presses the intercom on his desk. 

“Yes, Sergeant Major?” his assistant chirps on the other end. 

Eyes raking over the photos of Sansa, he lets out a heavy sigh. “Get my father on the phone. Tell him it's urgent.” 

**_To Be Continued..._ **


	4. Part Four

_“And we end tonight’s news update in Bitterbridge where People’s Councilman Renly Baratheon announced his candidacy for Prime Minister with a flourish. Alongside his wife, Margaery Tyrell, the Councilman regaled a crowd of 20,000 attendees with a rousing speech calling for a return to real Westerosi values. The spirited rally was attended by a number of Westerosi dignitaries, including councilmen from Blackhaven, Ashford, The Arbor, Highgarden, and Old Town…”_

Sarella’s just kicked off her shoes and turned on the TV when her phone rings with a call from Wyman Manderly. “You seeing this?” her former boss asks in his booming, jovial tone. 

It’s the most predictable story of the year. The minute he started publicly courting Margaery Tyrell, Renly’s ambitions were painfully obvious. And Margaery’s entire life was one long audition for the Prime Minister’s office. First, as a spouse. Later, after she’s dropped the requisite amount of children and has aged enough that Westerosi will listen to her instead of just wanting to fuck her, as a Prime Minister herself. 

With a good campaign, Robb can beat Renly. The youngest Baratheon is all flash, while Robb has the looks, charisma, _and_ substance. But it would be a tough match-up—Renly and Margaery are beloved.

“What are you going to do against this?” she asks as she pads across the living room to answer a knock at her door. A quick look through the peephole reveals Daemon holding up a to-go bag from the kitchen at the Hightower Hotel. Putting Wyman on hold, she tentatively opens the door. The familiar smell of crab cakes and Braavosi Bay seasoning fill her nose. 

“To the victor go the spoils,” Daemon says with a grin. “Crab cake sandwich and Braavosi Bay fries.” When she reaches for the bag, he snatches it back. “Only if I can join you. And before you slam the door in my face, I know you haven’t eaten all day.” 

Her stomach growls in agreement. 

_Traitor._

“What if I told you I’m thinking about an outside-the-box candidate?” Wyman says once she has Daemon settled in her living room and retreats to the kitchen for privacy. 

“As in ‘not Robb?’” 

“A different Stark. One with teets who’s currently leading the Foreign Affairs Department.” 

Sarella’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “You’re running _Lyanna Stark_?” 

“Haven’t approached her yet,” Wyman says. “Need to see opposition research on her first. Know anyone who can handle that for me?” 

Oh, seven hells. As if Jon’s not already pissed at her; she can’t go digging into his mother’s affairs, which would ultimately lead to digging into _his_ affairs. “Her son works for me, Wyman.” 

“Surely you know someone outside your company. A family member, perhaps? Who mysteriously has more access to classified information across the world than the entire Defense Department?” 

Oberyn. He’s asking her to have someone from Viper Security, Inc. look into Lyanna Stark. 

Daemon _did_ say if she ever needs a favor… “Let me think about that.” 

“Don’t think too long, Sarella. Few people get to put a Prime Minister in office. Even fewer get to seat one of their heroes. Could be the opportunity of a lifetime.” 

He’s right. And everything in her wants to scream “Yes. A million times, yes.” _One Stark at a time_ , she thinks. “I’m finishing a big case. Give me until the end of the week.” 

Back in her living room, Daemon’s comfortably seated on her couch with a fragrant food spread on the coffee table: the aforementioned crab cake sandwich and fries, deep-fried Dornish dragon peppers, and some sort of garlicky burger that smells absolutely divine. An open beer bottle sits neatly on one of her coasters on the end table next to him while he refills her abandoned glass of Dornish Red. “What is this?” she asks.

“You and Tarth wrapped up your case today. It’d be rude not to feed you if I’m standing watch outside your apartment all night. Gods know you won’t feed yourself.” 

They aren’t wrapped up yet. She’s still meeting with Tyrion tomorrow to finalize the divorce contract without Joffrey’s absurd demands. And _she_ hadn’t finished anything. Brienne came armed with a nuclear bomb; Sarella merely pointed her in the right direction. 

Jaime and Cersei. Those kids. And she thought Oberyn’s proclivities were out there. She shakes away the thought before it can settle any further. “All night? You’ve been following me all day. When do you sleep?” 

“I’ve spent 72 hours on my feet in a Sothoryos jungle. I can manage a plush chair in your hallway for an evening,” he looks up from his food and pins her with a knowing glance. “Unless you prefer I stay _inside_?” 

Her? The apartment? He leaves her to guess. He’s impossible, but she’s starving and too exhausted to bicker. 

They eat in silence with the low hum of news commentary in the background; more analysis about the Prime Minister’s race and who else may run. 

_Lyanna Stark_. As much as she wants it for Robb, Lyanna could be a once-in-a-lifetime candidate. And keeping Robb under a lower profile in the People’s Council for another six years instead of on the national stage would make it easier to carry on...whatever they’re doing. 

If they’re still doing anything once he finds out about Sansa. 

“What’s put that dark cloud over your face?” Daemon asks, studying her carefully. “Is something wrong with the food?” 

Aching for a distraction from her thoughts, Sarella allows herself a slight smile. “You’re thoughtful when you’re not stalking me or trying to get into my pants.” 

With a sip of beer and a quirk of his brow, he seems to accept her invitation to banter. “I’ve never _tried_ to get in your pants,” he says. “When I fuck you, it will be as it was the first time: because you wanted something and took it upon yourself to come get it. That’s who you are, ‘Rella. Not some blushing maiden who needs to be compelled out of her panties.” 

“Do you enjoy getting a rise out of me? Because you can’t possibly think I’d _come get_ anything from you after all this time. Who knows where the hell you’ve been?” Except she knows _exactly_ where Daemon’s been. 

That’s the problem. 

He chortles as if she’s said something absurd. “Please don’t tell me you’re still hung up on me and your cousin. Arianne and I were kids, Sarella.” 

Finding out _after_ she’d had sex with him that she was indulging in Arianne’s sloppy seconds was enough for Sarella to temporarily end their fling when she was 19, but she has a bigger reason to stay the hell away from Daemon now. “And my father?” 

To his credit, he doesn’t blink. “I did not _fuck_ Oberyn,” he says, flicking crumbs from his fingers. “I fucked Ellaria _with_ Oberyn for her birthday. Once. You know he can’t deny her anything.” 

The rumors about Oberyn and the “son he never had” started about three years ago and were so pervasive around the world that they were accepted as fact. Knowing her father and how much Daemon idolizes him, she couldn’t put it past either of them, but she’d never _really_ wanted to know. Until now, apparently.

Somewhere deep down, in a place Sarella won’t admit, she’s relieved that _technically_ she and her father have never shared a lover. 

Technically. 

Needing to move, she hops up and begins clearing the black styrofoam containers from the coffee table. 

“‘I didn’t fuck your father. Just dropped some dick off at a threesome for your step-mother’s birthday.’ Do you hear yourself? That sounds normal to you?” 

She’s halfway to the kitchen by the end of her question. She should’ve left him standing in the hallway, food be damned. Daemon follows her with his relaxed, easy stride and leans on the counter as she jerkily discards dinner in the trash can. 

“Your father and I don’t claim to be ‘normal.’ That’s your game, ‘Rella. But you can’t quite get it up for a ‘normal’ life, can you? You let Stark dream of an alternate universe where you two live happily ever after while you get off on the thrill of sneaking around under the guise of being _desperately_ in love but tragically kept apart by your ambitions.” 

She rounds on him, fury rippling through her body as he cockily folds his arms and regards her with amusement. “So have your fun with your Councilman. And when you get bored with hiding who you really are behind prissy collared shirts and never-out-of-place hair and want to get fucked like a whore in a bathroom without pretense, you know who to call.” 

She hauls off to slap him but ends up with her wrist trapped in his iron grip. The press of his thumb on her pulse recalls his taunting, melodic drawl in her ear… 

_“Someone likes being held down and fucked…”_

Ripping her hand away, she sticks a finger in his face and glares at him. “You can walk like Oberyn, dress like Oberyn, and stick your dick in Ellaria as many times as you please but you are _not_ my goddamned father. You’re just _the help_. Watch your fucking mouth or I’ll have Obara cut your tongue out and send it to Ellaria to play with.” 

Daemon’s bright eyes darken. “You hear that?” he says, his voice dipping low. “That venom? That’s the real you. Fierce. Powerful. Fuck normal. It's beneath you.”

“Get out,” Sarella spits. 

He’s silent for a beat. Letting his gaze linger over her from head to toe, concentrating on her lips as he licks his own. Heat, low and dangerous, fills the narrowing space between them. “As my lady commands,” he says with a smirk. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

As his footsteps retreat into the hall, Sarella searches her cabinet for the biggest wine glass she can find, fills it to the rim with Dornish Red, and downs it in three swallows before heading to bed. 

* * *

“I have to admit: I’m disappointed, Ms. Sand,” Tyrion Lannister says as he reads the revised divorce contract. “I looked forward to a true battle of wits today, so imagine my surprise last night when I got a call from my father demanding Joffrey withdraw his alimony claim.” 

Seated across from him with a mug of steaming nutmeg espresso in front of her, Sarella nods. “I’d imagine he wants your family focused on the upcoming election instead of messy divorce negotiations.” 

Looking up, Tyrion taps a finger to his chin. “Or you somehow put the fear of the Stranger into him and he decided my dear nephew isn’t worth the hassle. The latter is one of few matters on which he and I agree.” 

Sarella tilts her head and immediately regrets it, last night’s wine throbbing in her temples. “You certainly advocated for Joffrey like he was worth it.” 

“I advocate for my family’s interests. Keeping Joffrey wrapped up in this business with Sansa distracts him from tanking profits at our King’s Landing office. Now, I’ll have to find some other way to keep him occupied.” 

_This business_. As if this was a lover’s quarrel and not Joffrey beating the shit out of his wife. What a strange, warped family. 

“You’ve added the restraining order my client requested?” Sarella asks. 

Tyrion nods. “The original prenup terms, liquidation and 50/50 split of joint assets, and my nephew cannot contact nor be within 500 feet of Ms. Stark.” Taking one more glance, he slides the document with Joffrey’s oddly neat signature over to her. “Perhaps one day, we’ll learn which of us has the sharper mind, Ms. Sand.” 

“I told you before, Mr. Lannister; I’m not here to amuse you. But if you need an explanation that helps you sleep at night…” She looks up at Brienne seated with Nym and Sam in the lobby outside of the conference room. “...just tell yourself I had the bigger gun.” 

Tyrion’s mismatched eyes follow hers to Brienne, then flicker with curiosity. “Yes,” he says slowly. “It seems you did.”

“This won't end with Sansa. You know that, right? If you don’t do something about Joffrey, the next woman could end up dead." 

Tyrion sighs. “Lucky for you, Ms. Sand. That’s _my_ unfortunate problem to solve.”

* * *

It’s a sign that his cousin is getting back to some semblance of her old self when she insists on treating the Sphinx Consultants team to a celebratory dinner at the office after signing her divorce papers. It’s a simple layout of appetizers from the Hightower Hotel and a booze cart, stocked with champagne for toasting and everyone’s personal favorites: Bear Island Reserve Scotch for him, vintage Dornish Reds for Nymeria and Sarella, the rare Summer Isles Rum that Obara swears by, and craft beers for Sam and Brienne. It’s the kind of thoughtful hosting his Uncle Ned would have done back at Winterfell. Seeing her spark back to life while planning it made Jon feel somewhat better about the last few days. 

Somewhat. 

“To _Ms._ Sansa Stark,” Sarella says, standing in the center of the room with a champagne flute in hand. “For the remarkable bravery it took to walk away from a dangerous marriage. May that same courage and bravery lead you in this next phase of your life. May you find freedom, rediscover joy, and embrace deep, true, _affirming_ love wherever you find it, starting with yourself." 

“And!” Nym cuts in after they all toast. “To our real-life knight in shining armor, the Warrior in a Suit who saved the day. The gallant Lady Brienne Tarth!” 

A blushing Brienne drops her head and raises her glass and Jon takes another sip of his scotch. 

He’s happy for Sansa. But an NDA protecting his secrets and all the wealth he entered the marriage with is more than Joffrey deserves. A thought he, Arya, and Rickon shared on the family video chat earlier that day once the divorce was final. Arya wanted Joffrey gelded. Rickon threatened to round up his teammates, find Joffrey in an alley, and bludgeon him with hockey sticks. Even mild-mannered Bran vaguely alluded to hacking some system and crashing Lannister Oil & Gas stocks after expressing his gratitude that Sansa was okay. 

Aunt Cat was as steely and stoic as expected, but it was hard to miss the ice in her voice when she said that she’d go to King’s Landing for a couple of weeks to help Sansa get set up in a new place. 

Robb was silent, but Jon knew his cousin. A practiced politician, he could hold his rage. He only stated that he’d accompany his mother to King’s Landing for a few days and speak with Sansa then. 

The roaring rant came when a fiery Robb called him a couple of hours later. 

“You have to talk to her eventually,” Obara says, taking a seat next to him on the couch in the lobby while everyone else congregates in the conference room. She’s abandoned glasses for the evening and is swigging her rum from the bottle. 

It takes a second for him to realize she’s talking about Sarella. 

“She made the right call for the client. You need to get over it.” 

Looking down at his half-empty scotch, Jon shakes his head. “You say that as if you won’t bash a man’s skull over your sisters.” 

Obara stares straight ahead and takes another draw from the bottle. “You’re moping in the corner like a pussy because Sarella put the job before your feelings. As if Joffrey can’t turn up mysteriously dead in a month.” She shrugs. “I guess that’s the difference between thinking like an operative and thinking like a cop. Go be nice to my sister before I punch you in the face.” 

In spite of himself, Jon chuckles. “Yes, ma’am,” he says with a salute as Obara pats his knee and rises from the couch. After another few sips and watching Sansa compliment Nym on a pair of oxblood pumps that he’s definitely seen on the floor in his loft, Jon gets up and joins the party. It’s time to make up with his best friend. 

* * *

Sansa Stark is officially Sansa Stark. 

_Just_ Sansa Stark. 

It would be hard to believe under normal circumstances. Standing outside on a breezy night in Oldtown sharing a joint with one of the fixers who worked on her divorce makes it all the more surreal. 

When was the last time she smoked? College? One of those spa trips to Lys with Margaery when she was twenty-five? The last few years, she couldn’t count on Joff to stay sober and one of them had to be, so she wouldn’t even have the occasional hit, bump, or pill like so many of the people in her social circle.

When she struck up a conversation with the stylish Nymeria Sand about her oxblood Prada pumps and the woman asked if she wanted to step outside for a smoke, Sansa thought why the hell not. 

Nymeria blows tiny smoke rings and studies her. “A word of advice from an older woman?” 

“Older?” Sansa asks. “You don’t look a day over thirty” 

Nym smiles and taps a few ashes from the joint. “A courteous lady indeed. I’ll be thirty-eight this summer. Anway. In the next few years, you’ll sit through a lot of therapy and conversations with people you love who will treat you like a victim. They'll mean well, but don’t let them. You married a brute who did horrific shit to you that you did not deserve—that’s a fact. But it doesn’t have to define the rest of your life. Rebuild yourself. Erect new boundaries going forward but _go forward_. And don’t let anyone make you feel small. _Joffrey_ was small. You’re a She-Wolf.” 

Nym gifts her the rest of the joint and leaves her to herself, leaning on the side of the stone steps that lead up to the Sphinx Consultants offices, enjoying the clear night. 

_A She-Wolf_. Sansa likes the sound of that. It reminds her of Arya and her Aunt Lyanna. If only she could be as bold and fearless.

She’d been so close to her mother that it’s hard to see herself as a _Stark_ woman, but she remembers their portraits hanging in the Winterfell library. Their long, single braids. How they stared through the frames with eyes as cold and stern as any old Lord of Winterfell. 

That blood runs through her veins, too. It’s about time she embraced it. 

The Oldtown air is sweeter than in King’s Landing; the wind off the Honeywine warmer than that of the Blackwater. It’s a nice reprieve, but King’s Landing still calls to her. She’ll need to make a new home. She liked the penthouse, but she’s thinking about something bigger. A little ways out of the city, maybe in Crownland. She always wanted to be the lady of an estate. She can build one and keep a cute loft in the city for hosting her trendier friends for after-work parties and weekend shopping trips. 

_Speaking of King’s Landing…_

She pulls out her brand new cell phone and swipes a finger across the screen. She left her old phone at the penthouse and is without most of her old contacts, but she managed to scrape together a few pertinent ones. 

She takes another long drag and lets her finger hover over one of the contacts. 

“Make the call, She-Wolf.”

Blowing smoke into the night, she presses the name and waits for an answer. She’s ready to give up on the fifth ring. This is a bad idea. It plays into the Lannisters' sick little narrative. 

Yes, well. Fuck the Lannisters. 

On the sixth ring, he answers. “Clegane.” 

“Sandor? It’s Sansa.” 

There's noise in the background at first. Loud, sparse conversations that indicate he's probably outdoors. That's right. He's a bouncer at a Flea Bottom pub on weekends. “What’s wrong?" he growls over the din. “You need anything?” 

“Oh! Nothing. Fine. Finalized the divorce today, actually. I wanted to know if you got the bourbon I sent? I gave everybody on Sarella’s team a thank you dinner tonight and wanted to make sure you received my gratitude in King’s Landing as well.” She slaps her forehead and looks up at the stars. Seven hells, she’s rambling like a moron. 

“Came this morning. Wanted to thank you, but…it was your old number…”

Maybe she’s buzzed. Or the fact that he sounds as nervous as she is, but she smiles. “So, I’m thinking. When I return to King’s Landing, I’ll need my own security detail. And there’s no one I trust more than you so...I mean, if you don’t already have another job lined up, I’d really like it if you—”

“Yeah, Little Bird.” She swears there’s a smile in his voice, too. “Call me when you get back. We’ll talk.”

* * *

Two days after closing Sansa’s case, Sarella still hasn’t heard from Robb. Of course, he knows. The whole world knows now that Sansa and Joffrey released a joint statement to the press about the end of their marriage. They cite “irreconcilable differences” and how “after eight years together, two in marriage” they’ll “treasure their years of youthful romance” and “wish each other well” as they “pursue separate lives.” 

She barely notices the first day. There’s too much to do. Making up with Jon over coffee and steak bagels at the office. Finalizing Sansa and Joffrey’s public statement. Getting Brienne officially back on the Sphinx Consultants payroll. Preparing for Chataya Zo’s case. 

The second day, it’s more obvious. Daemon’s out of her hair now that they’re finished with the Lannisters, so she doesn’t have their banter to distract her throughout the day. The hours in the office are slow. The quiet evening at home is no better. By the time she crawls into bed after a glass of wine, she feels like a naughty teenager waiting for an irate parent to hand down their punishment. 

She’s either going to drink more wine and pass out or call Robb and get it over with. 

He answers on the third ring, his accent heavy with fatigue. Not surprising. The legislative season is ramping up in the People’s Council. He’s probably not left the office since returning to the Capitol earlier in the week. 

_No use beating around the bush_ , she thinks. “Were you going to call or were you expecting to hear from me?” 

“I should have heard from you as soon as you found out.” 

She knows this voice. It’s the distant chill of King Robb, the long-suffering monarch frustrated with subjects who won’t simply do as they’re told. The voice that brings her own venom to the forefront to put him in his place. 

This isn’t the time for that. He’s upset about Sansa. Frustrated about how little control he has over the situation. And he’s not an opponent; he’s her lover. So Sarella takes a deep breath and wills softness into her tone. “She didn’t come to me as a friend of the family, Robb. She came to me as a _client_. I didn’t have a choice—” 

“You had a choice. You chose what you always choose.” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” 

“If you cared about _anything_ more than playing your power games, you wouldn’t have taken the case. You would have called me immediately and let me take care of it. Instead, you didn’t tell me that my sister was getting her head caved in because you were afraid of what I’d sacrifice to protect someone I love. _Everything._ I’d sacrifice _everything._ ” 

“Your sister is a woman grown. If she _wanted_ an overprotective big brother, she would have called you. She didn’t. I put _my own flesh and blood_ in the line of fucking fire to save her so _you_ _wouldn’t have to worry_ about it. Not _only_ did I give your sister exactly what _she_ wanted; I protected you from your own hot head. So what is the fucking problem?” 

“You didn’t protect me, you protected my _position_. These games? That’s what you love. And you told me...I should have known...It’s the same reason you’d rather fuck me in the loo while another woman wears my ring than wake up next to me every day. Because you need to play puppet master.”

Hearing Daemon’s accusation in Robb’s voice floors her. It’s not that she doesn’t love Robb. She absolutely does. But she is who she is. 

What did her father say? Years ago on that tarmac in the North while he laid out all the reasons she and Robb wouldn’t work? 

_“And even though Sarella the Powerhouse is what got his cock up in the first place, he will let you be less than who you are because it makes his life easier.”_

“Just so I’m clear, _King Robb_ ,” she speaks slowly, allowing her simmering anger to leak out. “Me solving your sister’s problem—efficiently without any collateral damage to your family—means I can’t _possibly_ love you because if I _did_ , I would have run into your big, strong arms and breathlessly asked you for help _your own sister_ didn’t even want? That’s what love means to you?” 

“No, Sarella. Love means you come to me first and we figure it out. It means you care more about _us_ than playing your little Cyvasse game with the Lannisters to prove how clever you are while my sister’s abuser gets off scot-free. But I don’t...I don’t think you’re capable of that.” 

_Because I’m not normal._

“Well, as you said, Major Stark. I told you exactly who I was three years ago. I thought you knew that when you laid your sword at my feet and said you’d never ask me for anything. But I guess I missed the fine print where you ask me to be someone other than who I am. 

“I’m not _normal._ I don’t dream of happily ever afters. And I am _not_ the type of woman who’ll ignore your sister’s wishes and come to you with a problem I can solve myself because it makes you feel better. If you need ‘love’ to be cozy nights by a Winterfell fire and a woman _beseeching_ your permission to do her fucking job, I suggest falling in love with your fianceé. She’ll be great at it. It’s why I chose her.” 

Sarella does not fill the silence that follows. 

She lets it linger. Wants her words to hit their intended marks and settle into Robb’s soft places. 

When he doesn’t fight back, she knows it’s over. There’s a quiet “Goodbye, Sarella” and a click. 

She’s not foolish enough to believe she won’t feel this one day. You can’t hurt the one you love without hurting yourself. But as she walks to the kitchen for another glass of Dornish Red, she promises to treat that pain as a lesson. 

Normal is armor. A cloak she uses to hide her weapons, but it’s not _her_. Whenever ‘normal’ requires her to lay her weapons down or soften her sharp edges; she’ll resist. She’s too much of her father’s daughter to do otherwise.

By 2:00 AM, she’s on her third glass of wine and through all of Sphinx Consultants’ current case files. Checking her calendar, she sees a reminder to call Wyman with a decision about Lyanna tomorrow. 

With another sip of wine, she calls Daemon.

* * *

“It’s a little late for a proper lady, don’t you think?” Daemon asks, clicking on the control panel in his King’s Landing apartment. He quickly scans the feed and finds Sarella at her kitchen counter cradling a glass of red wine. Her pajamas aren’t as sexy as he’d like; white satin sleep shorts and a matching camisole but a peek at the cleavage she usually hides is a nice touch. 

“Not when I need a favor from an improper gentleman,” she retorts, rubbing a dainty bare foot against her ankle. 

“A favor at…” he checks the clock. “2:00 AM? Do tell.” 

It’s Lyanna Stark. She needs a deep background check on her and anyone tangentially connected to her. When Daemon asks why Sarella haughtily says it’s none of his concern. There’s something different in her voice, a cool edge she only uses when trying to get the best of someone. It’s odd that she’s using it at home in the middle of the night. 

He doesn’t mind it. He likes her power voice. 

“Anything else I can help you with at this hour? I get the impression something’s keeping you up.” 

Her snort is silent. He would have missed it if he didn’t have cameras in her apartment. She twirls the wine in her glass and puts her phone on her shoulder. “Now that you mention it…” she says, easing into the relaxed lilt of her mother’s tongue. “I could use some help getting back to sleep. Are you still in Oldtown?” 

_Well._

Well, well, well. 

Daemon slips back into his chair. “Unfortunately, I’m not. Though, I’m curious. How would I help you sleep if I was?” 

She shrugs and leans against the counter. “You can’t, so it doesn’t matter.” 

“We both know I don’t need to be there to help you sleep, ‘Rella. Tell me what you wanted tonight.” He slips a hand into his boxers and watches the dilemma play out on her face. 

_C’mon, ‘Rella. Take what we both know you want…_

“You,” she finally answers. 

Daemon grips himself. “To do what?” 

“To fuck me.” She feigns casualness, but her chest rises and falls with the admission. 

“And what do you want now?” he asks. “To hear my voice while you slide your fingers over your pretty cunt wishing I was there?” 

“Maybe.” 

He shakes his head. _Still a fucking tease._ “Maybe? Maybe you’re thinking about how much I used to enjoy watching you melt all over my hand. Like that time I made you cum in the pool while your sisters were only a few yards away. Or that night I spread you out on your father’s vintage Dodge Viper and let you fuck my fingers and licked you until you begged me for mercy…” 

She crosses her ankles and squeezes her thighs as she bites her lip. “Maybe you’re getting wet right now,” he says gliding up and down his length with slow, lazy pumps. “Why don’t you start by squeezing one of those tits you’re always hiding. You remember how I used to do it, don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” she breathes, ghosting a hand over the satin to follow his instructions. 

“Where are you right now?” 

“In my kitchen…” she says, slowly. 

Daemon smiles a sly grin and applies pressure to the base of his cock. “Good. That’s where I’d fuck you if I was there. Now, put your phone on speaker. You’re going to need both hands.” 

* * *

_**Epilogue** _

The theme of his divorce party is "Long Live King Joff" and Joffrey Baratheon spares no expense. He rents out The Vault in the basement of the Mockingbird building in downtown King’s Landing. Once the First Royal Bank of Westeros, it is now an exclusive underground nightclub that utilizes the old vaults as VIP rooms where, if a patron is willing to pay enough, anything goes. 

After years of putting on airs for the sake of playing the good husband, he is a Lion off the leash. Or a Stag, more appropriately. After all, this party makes his stag night look like a grammar school sleepover.

The night starts with a seven-course meal. He only sits still long enough to enjoy the main course of slow-roasted boar and fingerling potatoes with pigeon pie on the side. 1,000 bottles of champagne are shipped ice cold from Lys and each guest gets a bottle to his or herself. As the man of the hour, Joff has 20 bottles marked just for him; some of which he drinks directly from the bottle, some he sprays on the nude dancers showing off stunning feats of flexibility throughout the room. His favorite is a bronze-toned girl in gold body spray who performs the Meereenese Knot in front of the throne he brought in especially for tonight. 

These aren’t even the best party favors. 

Those come in the form of little gold bags decorated with crowned Stags and Lions. 

The finest Summer Isles sweet lotus leaves. Blue Nightshade pills from Qarth. Cocaine straight from fields of Volantis—none of that stepped-on bullshit from Tyrosh. 

It’s Joffrey’s party and he’ll roll if he wants to. He samples a little bit of everything. 

Half-empty champagne bottle in hand, he’s seated on his throne while a woman with thick, chestnut-colored hair gives him the best blow job he’s ever had. He’s got a fist full of it in his hand, shoving himself down her throat, mesmerized by the tattoo of a long-stemmed red rose that curves down the length of her spine. 

Distant calls from the crowd cut through the thumping music and fog in his head. 

“Choke the bitch, Joff!” 

“Bend her over the throne! We wanna see her take it in the ass!” 

Champagne dribbles down his chin as he rams himself into the woman’s mouth and he’s on the edge. Wanting to give the crowd a real show, he empties his champagne bottle over her head as his climax rips through him. 

It’s all too much. The drugs. The booze. The lack of feeling in his legs. He collapses back into the plush red velvet to raucous applause. With the little bit of strength available to him, he raises a hand and waves to his subjects before the eager recipient of his seed winds up his body and straddles his lap. 

“Do I please you, Your Grace?” she pants into his ear.

He struggles with words but shows his approval with a sharp smack on her bare ass. 

“I could give you more,” she purrs, reaching between his legs for his flaccid cock. “But it feels like you need...help.” She punctuates her sentence with a firm squeeze. 

“I’m a big boy,” he slurs. “I’ll get there.” 

“I can get you ready in five minutes, Your Grace.” Flicking out her tongue, she reveals a tiny purple pill sitting on the tip. “You want it? I worry someone may take their liberties with me before you get back up…” 

Gripping her ass to pull her closer, he leans up. “What’s your name?” 

“Lenny…” she coos, rolling her hips against him. 

“Kiss your king, Lenny.” 

That’s the last thing Joffrey remembers before he blinks awake in the backseat of a limo, seated across from a man in a ski mask with a pair of haunting gray eyes. 

* * *

As soon as Joffrey’s eyes blink open, Jon jumps into action, grabbing his blond hair and dragging his limp, lanky body into the dark alley. 

“Wh—what is—Get off…” he mumbles. 

“Is that what my cousin said?” Jon spits. “Huh? When you _beat_ the woman you married, did she ask you to get off?” 

“What? Who…” Joffrey’s green eyes flutter in confusion. “No…” he moans. “Wait…” 

Grabbing him by the throat, Jon holds his body up with one hand while reaching into his jacket pocket with the other. “I could’ve made this easy and let you die of an overdose in your limo like the junkie cunt you are, but after what you did to her…” He lets the end of a thick rope dangle from his hand. “...you don’t deserve ‘easy.’” 

For the first time since he woke up, Joffrey’s able to enunciate. “Wait! No! You ca—”

He’s cut off by the rope wrapping around his neck. 

Jon doesn’t expect it to come so easily. He’s killed men before, but only as a cop. Only in self-defense and never this closely. Wrapping the rope around Joffrey’s neck and absorbing his futile slaps and kicks, Jon is oddly...soothed. 

With bits of rope in each fist, he pulls, watching Joffrey’s face turn deep purple, listening to his expensive loafers shuffle uselessly against the concrete. While there’s still a hint of light in his bulging eyes, Jon leans down and whispers in his ear: “My cousin Robb sends his regards.” 

One more rough tug of the rope and Joffrey Baratheon takes his last breath.

* * *

 _“Shocking news out of King’s Landing this morning. Joffrey Baratheon, the eldest son of the former Prime Minister Robert Baratheon and oil heiress Cersei Lannister, was found dead in a Flea Bottom alley, following what witnesses describe as a ‘night of drugs and debauchery’ at a popular King’s Landing nightclub. The 31-year-old oil executive was reportedly celebrating his divorce from_ Good Morning, Westeros _news host, Sansa Stark after the couple released a joint statement announcing their separation last month._ _While police have few details, early evidence points to a robbery/homicide..."_

_**The End** _


End file.
